SCENE OF THE CRIME

“I returned the same way I came without being caught.”

Weathered abandoned car at a mountain construction site

I’ve heard tell many times, that criminals often return to the crime scene, believing I last heard that on a rerun of  “Dragnet” or “Columbo.” I’ve returned to the scenes of a couple of crimes numerous times, though I didn’t participate in the initial criminal activity. On the morning of July 12, 1974, I was going to work at Chugach Foothills in Anchorage, Alaska.

A friend of mine, Gary Adair, also worked for CHG Construction, and we helped the Seattle-based company build homes. On the drive to the site, a burned-out hulk of a car sat near where we worked. It had evidently been put out recently, because water still remained from the firefighters.

Seeing it as a chance to perhaps scrounge something good, Gary stopped first in his AMC Javelin while I pulled up behind him in my Dodge Charger. The fire had consumed everything because nothing of value remained. We poked around for several minutes, leaving fingerprints all over the blackened sheet metal and not thinking anything of it.

At lunchtime, we noticed police cars surrounding the burnt automobile, and someone finally told us a dead guy had been found mere feet from the vehicle. According to this coworker, the fellow had been run over numerous times. Remembering that we’d been there earlier and had rumbled through the ashes, we were both glad we hadn’t found the body.

Only a few years after that, I was managing one of my father’s automotive parts stores in Jewel Lake. I always arrived early and took out the garbage through the back door first thing to put in a dumpster. As I opened the door, just as the sun was rising, I noticed an aluminum two-wheeled hand cart lying in a ditch a few feet away.

Walking over to it, and remembering the legal definition for such things, “Finders keepers – Losers weepers” came into play. I grabbed the cart and wheeled it into our building in the strip mall. When the post office opened, two stores down from us, they discovered it’d been burglarized.

The FBI stopped by our business soon after, wanting to look around and wondering if the thieves came in through the ceiling. Because it was a strip mall, someone could get above the ceiling tiles and travel the full length of all the stores. I found this out later, and I’ll explain how I knew at the end of this story.

The FBI went through my store and walked out back because they found a safe from the post office in the ditch where I discovered the hand truck. They’d walked right by the box carrier but didn’t say a thing, and I hadn’t put two and two together just yet. You should be seeing the big picture by now.

When six o’clock rolled around, I locked everything up and decided to take the hand truck home, since we already had one at the store. A few days later, out in the garage, I noticed a small tag riveted on the back of the handle. It read: Property of U.S. Post Office. At that point, I didn’t know what to do, so I did what any young guy in my shoes would: I removed that tag and gave the thing to a friend.

Because they’d never caught the thieves, and since I had their property, I would’ve become prime suspect number one. I’d watched too many crime shows on television to know this much. By now, you’re probably wondering how I knew about the ceiling and how I could crawl the entire length.

On the other side of our business was a hardware store. They were on the verge of bankruptcy and owed us several hundred dollars. My job was to try to collect, and they kept putting me off for months. Remembering that a man I worked for had encountered the same, and how he dealt with it, I decided to emulate him.

My boss at Wonder Park Texaco, Isiah Lewis, had installed an engine in a customer’s car, and the customer was supposed to pay him in full by a specific time. When he didn’t, I rode with Lewis one night to this man’s house. We latched on, took the car back to his garage, and quickly removed the engine, stealthily hauling the vehicle carcass back, sans its motor. It was slicker than molasses.

The struggling hardware store had an airless paint sprayer worth about as much as what they owed us. One night, I crawled up into the rafters, dropped down over the wall using a shelf as a ladder, and wheeled it out the back door. I returned the same way I came without being caught.

The money made from selling this tool almost paid back what was owed. I didn’t see it as stealing back then, but as good business practice learned from a very wise businessman. That hardware store folded less than a week later, and they quickly removed all inventory. We never did receive payment.

I’m sure lawyers and police would beg to differ, but my friend Lewis claimed, “Sometimes ya gotta do what ya gotta do in business to keep tha doors open!” I’d bet some shop owners in Havasu would echo the same.

Aurora Plaza building with dumpsters, safe, handcart, and mountain backdrop

POWER POLITICS

“Becoming part of the ‘in crowd’ meant being ‘voted in’ by those already in the group. “

Children in a schoolyard near a sign reading No Bullying Zone

Webster’s definition of politics is the set of activities, processes, and methods that groups and societies use to make collective decisions, distribute resources, and manage power.

I try to avoid mentioning personal politics in my columns, but sometimes it’s hard. When I say politics, I generally mean political candidates and their parties. A different kind of politics began early on for me, when a group of friends voted amongst themselves against letting a new face join our small circle.  This was preschool even.

This type of politics then entered elementary school, with the same thing happening on the playground. A friend of mine in Texas, Todd Mold, was chastised by classmates because of his name alone. Girls were especially harsh on Todd, sometimes ganging up on him and saying crude things. In other words, he was shunned by most but me.

I can’t recall him crying or anything like that, but I’m sure he was hurt deep inside. If a kid sided with Todd, they were made fun of too. Some might not call this power politics, but I do.

High school was a totally different story. Becoming part of the ‘in crowd’ meant being ‘voted in’ by those already in the group. I never tried to be accepted because my friends and I marched to a different beat. It was definitely power politics at its finest.

Those students in this special group weren’t into fishing, camping, hunting, or hiking. They were more about being seen and looking cool, much like certain political candidates are these days.

Another political group existed, with the entry into this club being that you had to smoke pot or drink alcohol. They were open to anyone joining their club if you agreed with them that marijuana needed legalizing, and that you shared and didn’t bogart the product.

Some of these guys and gals often met in the school parking lot during lunch to do their thing. I silently viewed them as losers and didn’t mind being excluded from their ranks. Sometimes the pot advocates and the in-crowd mingled, but generally only after football games or other school activities.

Power politics is alive and well on the job, where employees who shouldn’t get promoted are advanced up the ladder because of favoritism. The same holds true in the upper officer ranks of the military and in youth sports.

Some kids get more playing time not because they’re better athletes, but because the child’s parents are friends with the coach. I’ve seen this happen. Yes, power politics plays a role here.

Power politics doesn’t seem to be a big part with seniors unless it’s perhaps among the HOA or Condo Association crowd. Here in Havasu, you don’t see as much flaunting of wealth as you might in Scottsdale, even though a good many wealthy folks live here.

Havasuans, for the most part, seem to belong to the same political party, which makes for a melding pot of sorts.  The rich blend in well with us have-nots, and I believe a good many like it this way.

As I mentioned at the beginning of this article, I try to avoid writing about politics, but unfortunately, it involves much more than just the daily friction between Democrats and Republicans. Power politics is everywhere.

This kind of politics at school, on the job, in HOA and Condo Association meetings, in car clubs, and in sports can be hurtful if you have thin skin. It’s a negative force that’s alive and kicking everywhere!

Residents arguing around a table at a Lake Havasu City HOA meeting

CHAIN GANG

“Once, one of the men yelled out, “Ya’ll be good little boys, or you’ll end up like me.”

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words. In the case of this vintage image, it was good for 535, but I could’ve easily reached a higher number. I didn’t, for the sake of keeping this article from turning into a book.

The photograph I refer to shows a group of the “Jones Trailer Park Gang,” as I now call us, though that name was the furthest from our young minds in 1963. We were just a bunch of kids who lived in a mobile home park and went to Southside School in Selma, Alabama.

Mom captured this moment because my brother and I would be moving to Texas within the month, and she had the foresight to snap it, not realizing how important it would be for me 63 years later. This is one of my most treasured Kodak moments.

While living in Jones, we lived along Highway 80, where we occasionally saw “chain gangs,” as Dad and Mom called them. Men of both colors picked up trash along the road, and if we ventured too close to the prisoners, a guard would yell for us to move back.

Once, one of the men yelled out, “Ya’ll be good little boys, or you’ll end up like me.” That statement lodged in my brain and stuck like peanut butter & jelly on bread.

Randy Coggins, Eddie Moon, Ken Moon, my brother, me, and another kid whose name I don’t recall made up this ragtag group. I use the ragtag moniker more as a reference to my pants than anything. In the color-enhanced photograph, those jeans have more ironed-on patches than tufts of hair on an American Hairless Terrier.

What we did for fun is very different from what kids do now in Lake Havasu City. Riding bicycles, without the benefit of batteries to propel us along, playing cowboys and Indians, picking wild blackberries, rolling in the dirt on occasion without fear of being bitten by scorpions, walking across busy Highway 80 and placing pennies on the railroad track, lastly, standing beside the road trying to get trucks to blow their air horns. Only once did the state police stop and ask us to move further away from traffic.

I won’t mention our BB gun wars or burning ants with a magnifying glass. We often walked to R&R Grocery for RC Colas or NEHI grape sodas, saving the empties for the nickel deposit. We didn’t have a large lake to swim in like Lake Havasu, but we did have a creek and a swimming pool located on Craig Air Force Base within walking distance.

Sadly, Ken Moon is now gone, a victim of cancer, while Randy Coggins silently bit the dust in his sleep one night. Eddie Moon still lives in Alabama, Prattville, I believe, while my brother, Jim, is in San Diego. I don’t know the unidentified boy’s whereabouts, although I’m sure someone back in Selma does.

It appears that none of us ended up on a chain gang, and I’d like to believe that all of us knew Jesus Christ as savior, for if that turns out to be the case, this classic photograph of “The Jones Trailer Park Gang” can be reshot in Heaven, minus my soiled and patched jeans, of course.

JUDGMENT DAY

“It was a thankless title, and I was glad to finally get rid of it.”

Democratic supporters celebrate with signs reading “Democrats take the House & Senate!”
Supporters celebrate a Democratic electoral victory while holding signs proclaiming control of the House and Senate.

I’ve often wondered why people run for political office, whether it be local, state, or national. Are they gluttons for punishment? Do they do it for power, or to grow their financial portfolio?

Some may have an ulterior motive, such as using their political pull ‘once elected’ to advance a personal agenda. Sometimes that comes out in the wash when investigations are initiated. Hopefully, political incumbents run for the right reasons: to make towns, cities, states, and our country safer and better places for citizens to live.

The only time I was elected to anything, other than class clown, was when I was voted in as shop steward. My main reason for even throwing my hat into the ring was to improve safety in the shop where I worked.

Our air quality was extremely poor, with tests proving it. I served as shop steward for two years and came away feeling totally demoralized. In one instance – where a major safety issue was concerned – I was continually targeted by management even after things were settled.

Supervisory personnel saw me as a rabble-rouser, while membership wouldn’t back me when the heat was on. It was a thankless title, and I was finally glad to get rid of it.

For example, a large piece of equipment the workers used had no brakes. I put a red tagout on it to be repaired because it was a heavy bucket loader and could easily injure or kill someone.

The loader was needed for a specific task, but the shop superintendent removed the warning and told an operator to drive it anyway. This was a major violation of OSHA regulations.

I stood my ground, and things got heated, with threats directed at me. The repairs were eventually completed, but when it came time for that operator to testify that he’d been ordered to drive the machine, he claimed the opposite, making me look like a liar.

Politicians on all fronts often go through the same thing, enduring countless attacks, especially during election time. Some ads make it appear that an opposing candidate just escaped from Alcatraz Island. I’m stretching things here, but I’ve seen ads claiming a candidate was involved in criminal activity, and I always think, “Why weren’t they arrested?”

Exodus 18:21 instructs that leaders should be capable, God-fearing, trustworthy men who hate dishonesty. I could list several politicians who I believe don’t fit that mold. Rather than being judgmental out in the open, I’ll let my votes reward the men and women I deem honest and trustworthy.

Each night before I go to bed, I pray for certain politicians, when in fact, I should be praying for them all, at least for their salvation. A few candidates and incumbents in past elections definitely needed spiritual guidance, especially when it came to rights for the unborn. “If a heartbeat is detected, the unborn child needs to be protected.”

You’ll never find me casting a ballot for politicians who think differently here. How could any responsible mother, father, grandfather, or grandmother vote for such people with a clear conscience? I couldn’t.

Those voters lacking empathy for the unborn, along with elected politicians who see no ill in their ways, will pay a huge price on the real judgment day unless they repent. All of their smirks and gloating after this past election will be used as evidence against them.

In Matthew 18:6, Jesus says: “If anyone causes one of these little ones—those who believe in me—to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and drowned in the depths of the sea.”

Older voter exits a booth labeled Voting Station 4

JUST ANOTHER DAY

“People take things like newspaper stories for granted, as if a robot wrote them.”

Blue Jeep at Dutch Bros drive-thru with two passengers holding coffee

Sometimes it feels like just another day, until I remember that “Each new day is more special than the last.” Often, I must sit back and reflect on how blessed I am to realize the truth of those words.

Self-pity tries to sneak in on occasion, and I shut the door. This usually happens after I’ve written something I consider Ernest Hemingway-worthy yet hear no praise from those who’d read it. That hasn’t stopped me from writing for many years now.

Artists often suffer the same fate as writers, getting no accolades until after they’ve passed. Over the years, I’ve received more praise for holding doors open for people than for anything else.

That’s okay, because I was taught to perform random acts of kindness for strangers rather than expect kudos for personal accomplishments. A “Thank you” for holding that door open goes a long way, and I make sure to return the gesture when someone does the same for me.

Proverbs 27:2 says, “Let another praise you, and not your own mouth; a stranger, and not your own lips.”

In restaurants, I always tell the server if their food is great, since I’m sure they hear the opposite most often. I once asked the publisher of the “Lamar Democrat” newspaper, Renee Reeves, how I’d know the stories I sent her were any good. It was rare for a reader to ever acknowledge such.

Renee told me that subscribers would let her know right away if they weren’t up to snuff. That seemed a bit odd to me, but I suppose it’s just human nature, as sad as it seems. People take things like newspaper stories for granted, as if a robot wrote them. That’s actually happening now with AI, or artificial intelligence. These days, if I come across a good human-written piece, I try to let the writer know.

I do my best to compose excellent stuff, whether it’s articles, poems, or songs. If it appeals to me, that’s as good as it’ll get because I’m not working with someone else’s hands or brain. I’ve written some very funny things, though it seems I’m the only one who finds them humorous. It doesn’t matter what others are thinking because I can’t read their minds, which is good.

At least once a month, I celebrate what I call “Mike Appreciation Day.” This is a time to perk myself up when no one else does it for me. My treat is a trip through Culver’s drive-thru for a peanut butter and chocolate shake, or a visit to Dutch Brew Coffee for a raspberry mocha with whipped cream. Joleen always gets to partake of the celebration, so it’s not strictly a personal celebration.

I’ll keep opening doors for people, especially women, even if they don’t acknowledge it, which has happened. If my ‘appreciation meter’ gets too low, the fastest way to recharge it is to take my old truck to a car show.

The 1950 Chevrolet pickup garners more attention in a few hours than I can handle. Add that to the thank-you from opening doors for folks, and my story and songwriting become nothing more than personal enjoyment. That’s how I prefer to keep things.

SILENTLY WHISPERED

“I see ‘jumbo shrimp’ often on restaurant menus and in the frozen food section of grocery stores.”

Older couple embracing on a deck overlooking a mountain lake

Whether watching television, listening to the radio news, or even music, I’m always on alert for new oxymorons. For those who don’t know, an oxymoron is a figure of speech that combines words with opposite or seemingly contradictory meanings.

Today, I learned three new ones after first hearing a news reporter use the phrase “alien resident.” That same newsman then repeated “small crowd’ a couple of times to describe the turnout at this Democrat politician’s rally.

Later that same day, an Elton John song came on called “Honky Cat.” I know this tune well as it came out in 1972, the year I graduated from high school. As I listened to the lyrics, “high class ladies from New Orleans” grabbed my attention.

Looking at my wife, I told her that I’d just learned a new oxymoron: high-class prostitutes. When she mentioned Sir Elton John didn’t use this phrase, I told her that’s what he meant, but the singer was being politically correct. Later that day, when I researched the song’s meaning, I was correct.

I see ‘jumbo shrimp’ often on restaurant menus and in the frozen food section of grocery stores. ‘Little giant’ often describes a short fellow capable of doing humongous tasks, not to be confused with gentle giants. For information’s sake, Jolly Green Giant is the tall fellow hawking peas and carrots, and Jolly is a pretty ugly dude. Pretty ugly, of course, is an oxymoron.

I’ll try to think of other oxymorons and use them in sentences. When company stops by, my wife likes to break out ‘plastic silverware’ to save on dishwashing. The other day, she was looking for ‘original copies’ of something. Lake Mead is ‘growing smaller’ with each passing year. Hopefully, you spotted those three.

A former Army enlistee once told me ‘Military intelligence’ was an oxymoron, probably because he was unhappy with his limited time in the service after being dishonorably discharged. I’m sure he was one of a handful who believed that, because I didn’t. Good grief! Did you catch that last one?

I saw on Facebook that a Lake Havasu resident’s dog was ‘found missing’ from its yard the other day, but thankfully, the pooch returned home before coyotes got it. If you clearly misunderstood that one, you’re probably not the only one. I hear the ‘deafening silence’ here. This last example below has a more serious tone.

If the ‘organized chaos’ in this country continues as it currently is, with folks from other countries trying to erase our culture as we know it, ‘civil war’ will eventually break out.

There’s nothing civil about war, as some ‘resident Middle East uninvited aliens’ want you to think. Things could get ‘pretty ugly’ fast, so it’s time to lock and load if you haven’t already, and that survivalist term isn’t ‘silently whispered’ around our house, especially not by friends living in Alaska.

Man reading The Yukon Valley News with headline “Organized Chaos Coming to Our Town”

CHILL

“Michelle’s message took a while to sink in, and I eventually saw the light.”

It seems everywhere I go ─ someone is complaining about something. I was part of that clique until about 10 years ago, when I drastically cut back on my petty complaints after hearing a minister explain how well citizens in the United States have it.

Pastor Chad Garrison mentioned that the poorest people in this country are far better off than those in third-world countries. He used statistics in his message, but I don’t recall the numbers. No one living here has a true reason to complain, unlike people in other impoverished lands.

Philippians 2:14 tells us: “Do everything without grumbling or arguing.” That is a hard pill to swallow for some because they seem to live to complain. I’m thinking of one person here, and those who know him would wholeheartedly agree. It’s just his nature, and that might be why he’s never kept a wife.

In the 1970s television sitcom “All in the Family,” Archie Bunker would always tell his wife, “Stifle yourself, Edith.” This came after she rambled on and on about a topic Archie disliked. Edith eventually turned the tables on her husband, telling Archie to zip it. I’ve never done that to anyone but would’ve liked to.

Twenty years ago, I was complaining about something political on Facebook when a friend basically told me to zip it unless I had a solution, which I didn’t. Michelle’s message took a while to sink in, and I eventually saw the light. That did set me on a path to complain less, but it didn’t totally end there. I believe Pastor Chad’s message was the final nail in the coffin.

These days, you won’t find me complaining about the food I get at a restaurant, because dining out is a blessing, and I’ve stopped taking this luxury for granted. If mashed potatoes are a little cold, they’ll still go down the yap. When someone drives a bit too slowly, I no longer get irritated because at this age I can go even slower than them.

Late mail is not a biggie. It only prolongs paying those bills, and at this point in life, who cares about their credit score anyway? The neighbors leaving their garbage cans out two days past pickup is no problem for me, since I’ve done the same, and the world kept right on revolving, just like on that soap opera, “As the World Turns.” My wife now tells me that show went off the air. We’ll just act like it didn’t for sake of my example here.

Mismatched socks, who gives a rip. No one looks that far down, as Joleen claims they do. Two different colors are nothing to get all worked up over. I no longer complain about which candidate gets in office, because I pray and vote, and that’s as much power as I have in that department. Whining or grumbling never does anything positive here except irritate those who have to listen.

I could go on and on, but that might come across as griping. I can only say that after a half century, I’ve finally changed, and feel much better for it. My 1970s advice for those feeling just the opposite right now: “Chill!”

Bearded man sitting outside a log cabin in an autumn mountain forest

INTO THE SUNSET

“My wife and I have attended for 40-plus years, both as spectators and as entrants with our 1950 Chevrolet pickup.”

Black vintage hot rod drifting on a road beside a desert river

The 48th annual “Run to the Sun” car show finished up, and by all visual indications, it was another huge success. Hot Rod cars and trucks from many states were present, though many Canadian entries were absent this year.

My wife and I have attended for 40-plus years, both as spectators and as entrants with our 1950 Chevrolet pickup. This year, with the old Chevy on the sidelines undergoing needed upgrades, we were looky-loos.

Joleen and I enjoyed watching the large, lively crowd, with young and old alike taking part, and we heard that Thursday night on McCulloch Boulevard was no exception. According to friends, turnout was huge.

Unfortunately, a few more veteran car club members were absent this year, and it’s a bit sad, at least to me. I don’t know all the names, but I can quickly recall Wally, Bob, Dennis, Ted, George, Chuck, Ed, and Don. I remember their vehicles best.

An older guy always parked near the original main entrance, and he drove a bright orange Henry J gasser sedan. He was a friendly older fellow and parked in the same spot year after year. I observed him cruise this loud, high-horsepower beast around town several times.

After talking with someone who knew Chuck, I learned he’d passed on. Jerry Crowe said the same held true for a gentleman who owned a glossy black ’32 Ford Deuce Coupe with a supercharged Hemi, dual magnetos, and 16 spark plugs. That was perhaps my favorite ride.

Lead Sleds are becoming increasingly rare to see, as the older crowd appreciates them more than anyone, and that group of fans is shrinking as well. A sizable number of custom and lowered vehicles have driven off into the Arizona sun and are permanently parked in places unknown.

In vintage westerns, cowboys often rode away on horses in a cloud of dust at the end of a movie, waving to loved ones with tears in their eyes. The same holds true for carboys and cargirls at “Run to the Sun.”

Many will return, yet sadly, some won’t. These are the ones driving their steel ponies into the setting sun, leaving a cloud of white-and-blue tire smoke behind them, never to be seen again.

Hopefully, a younger generation of hot rod enthusiasts will fill these empty shoes. In closing, I’d like to be around to see the 50th “Run to the Sun” because that’ll be a Lake Havasu City milestone to not be missed.

Orange car labeled 696, Lake Havasu, Havasu Gasser, Henry J, Speed & Custom; Havasu Plaza sign

IF THE SHOE FITS…

“Those joining the “No Kings” rallies fit this mold to perfection. “

Man entering voter booth at polling station surrounded by Alaska voting signs

Something about the odd decisions that left-leaning people make perplexes me. How do they even accept their line of thinking? Do they vote Democrat merely because that’s what their parents or friends did, or still do?

I’m tired of hearing liberal political gadflies ignorantly whine about anything and everything related to a conservative candidate for no specific reason other than to hear themselves grumble. What they say here now goes in one ear and out the other.

I’ll call this bellyaching, or “flawed thinking,” since some folks simply complain for personal satisfaction. “Shut up!” for goodness’ sake. Not all of us want to hear or read such. Trump Derangement Syndrome (TDS) is real, and there seems to be no working vaccination for it.

Those joining the “No Kings” rallies fit this mold to perfection. I suppose they are the same group marching in support of abortion and against cruelty to animals. Flawed thinking at its finest, with these folks evidently having deserted ‘common sense’ on the birthing table. That might sound a bit harsh, but unfortunately, it’s the sad truth.

These are the individuals who advocate no criminal punishment for marijuana use, although that drug is proven to lead to bigger dependency problems. Those who say otherwise undoubtedly have fried brains or hope to capitalize on the money they’d make selling this dope.

I’m talking about the very same folks who have no problem letting people cross our border unvetted, in the name of humanism, although those illegals could destroy the whole country, like they’re currently doing in France and Spain.

I wouldn’t call this misguided logic as containing an iota of common sense. It baffles me why people think that way. Dyslexic personalities perhaps, brain fog, or a lack of Vitamin B12? If the shoe fits, wear it.

Why is it that Democrats focus solely on what President Donald Trump is doing and never bring up their plans for this country? Is it possible they have none? Who do they think should be president? They never say. Why are they supportive of the mutilation of children in gender identity issues? The list goes on and on.

All I can do to correct things is continue to vote for candidates out to protect my religious freedom, rights of the unborn, right to bear arms, and the right to say what I just did without being shut down by a left-leaning Democrat judge. Why those folks on the left vote the wrong way will always remain a mystery to me.

I was blessed with common sense, and with God-fearing parents and teachers who taught me right from wrong. I listened to them and had enough common sense to discern which was best when it came to voting. It’s too bad not everyone saw the same light!

Bearded hiker with backpack and walking stick overlooking a misty mountain valley